


The spaces between

by notveryhandy



Series: so here’s our song [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Though he may hate Earth, the Master doesn’t mind dancing. (Especially, though he’ll never admit it, if it’s with the Doctor.)
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm)
Series: so here’s our song [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741708
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	The spaces between

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a while to figure out exactly which Master to do here, and I might expand on this later. For now, though, this is a oneshot.
> 
> In terms of when this happens? Just assume the Master ends up on Earth at some point.

Earth is boring. Dead boring. There’s really not much to do but _wait,_ and if there’s anything he hates it’s sitting around letting the universe happen. Things do not happen to the Master; no, he _makes_ them happen. The Master happens to the universe. This is the way of things.

He drums his fingers against the boring wooden desk in a tedious, cramped apartment, and as much as he’d love to go richer, well. Wouldn’t the Doctor notice? He’s not that predictable. (And here he hears the Doctor’s voice, or at least what he thinks is the Doctor’s voice: _Yes, you are._ )

He’s bored to tears on this dusty rock. Debating giving up the façade, and unveiling himself - but no, that’s too easy. Maybe he should do something. What had he liked, before? It’s hard to recall, tired old memories he can’t quite drag to the front of his mind.

Dancing. Yes, that’s something, isn’t it.

Well. It’s a start.

* * *

He’s not so frustrated as to go interact with humans, so the solution is:

Books. Aren’t they great, books? He flicks through the pages, apathetic at best. They are full of blocks of text too long to process, and faded, elegant dancers prancing about, and it’s all rather pretty, isn’t it?

He remembers a tune, faintly, something classical and _old._ The sort of thing that brings back images of quiet candle-lit nights in empty, empty rooms. It echoes with memories of the past, fragile enough to break if he touches them.

He hurls the top one at the wall, hears a nice, solid _thunk,_ and is not so foolish as to look back when he leaves the room, because the sight of books slew carelessly across the floor will bring back incidents he would rather forget.

* * *

It takes _time_ to learn, and that is infuriating. On Earth people are happy with the slog that is linear time, because they are close-minded fools who cannot look beyond their limited perspectives and _see,_ view the world anew and unbiased. Clear their minds and change their ideas, and is that really so hard?

He likes to think it isn’t, but then he’s been caught up in their ridiculous, limited beliefs before, and knows humans are capable of plenty of things the Doctor would like to forget.

Is he distracted? Is that a habit of this body, drifting off course? He stares at the instructions again, tries to imitate one of the intricate moves as shown, but it is clumsy and a pale mimicry of something beautiful.

This is to be expected of any beginner, but he does not like the utter powerlessness of being out of control.

It is, and he _hates_ this, embarrassing.

* * *

There comes a point when every move in the book is something he could do in his sleep, although he spends little time sleeping. That does not make him _good;_ it merely means he can successfully copy certain actions at certain times without fail.

Which is, on the whole, helpful. He can dance and indeed he does, whirling through the world on pointed feet, not stopping moving once. Of all Earth’s inventions, dancing is the best. (He thinks he has learnt this skill before, but his body does not remember them, and so each step is a new step on a new path in a new life.)

People stop and stare, sometimes, and other times they smile fondly or compliment him. Given they are humans, he is not sure which is worse.

The compliments, he decides quickly, because plenty of people would look at him oddly on Gallifrey, but few and far between ever appreciated him. The humans look at him and call him a _lovely man, aren’t you?_ (He is not sure about the ‘man’ part, although most would not understand that.)

* * *

It is to be expected, of course. The Doctor is inevitable. His body may have forgotten how to dance, but his mind has not forgotten the shattering events of history, which leads-

Here, half-drunk and delirious and swallowing back bitter, bitter memories. Alcohol is not enough to get a Time Lord in such a state, but it is numbing nonetheless. And what vodka couldn’t do (he nearly spat out that hideous drink, the first time), ginger beer can.

A bar, full of pounding music and swirling bodies. He has covered so many types of dance, locked in that little flat for weeks on end, and this is the fun kind. The fast kind. He likes being a little winded.

Then he catches sight of a tall figure, dark hair sticking up further than should be possible, and all of a sudden he finds himself thinking up excuses to stay and reasons to run.

He does neither.

* * *

The Doctor slouches over, clearly in a mood. “Why’re you here? Aren’t you, you know...”

Dead. “When has that ever stopped me?” He recovers from that brief but seemingly unending moment of ~~gay~~ panic, rather smoothly in his opinion. (The Doctor does not notice. The Doctor is drunk not just on alcohol but also on expectation.)

“I mean, I suppose so.”

At that the Master grins, and tries to ignore how ratty these clothes are in comparison to the Doctor’s, who’s wearing a somewhat less horrible than usual tuxedo. “Care for a dance?”

“‘m not sure what else you’d do,” the Doctor slurs, sarcastic even in the pits of despair.

He takes that as a yes (what else would the Doctor ever say?) and grips the Doctor’s hand firmly. “Let me indulge you,” he whispers in the Doctor’s ear.

Thisi s going to be _fun._

* * *

It is hardly a masked ball; they know exactly who they are, there is no real flair to this. The two of them are whirling about the dance floor, and the Master is, perhaps, slightly giddy. (He looks at the Doctor, sees flushed cheeks and rapid heartsrate, and is just a little bit smug.)

This is familiar, and yet not; the music and the lighting are all wrong, but the somewhat stumbling, inelegant gait of the Doctor and the lilting rhythm that always settles between them eventually is emphatically _there.  
_

The Master has not been this joyous and carefree in a long while. Before he knows it they’ve twisted and twirled into a corner of the bar, and the Doctor is calling up for drinks. They’re as close as they always are (too close for comfort). He likes it the way.

* * *

The Doctor grins, oblivious to just about everything, chattering inanely about the wonders of Earth to come up with something so spirited as this place. Yes, it is fun. Yes, it is a distraction. No, that does not mean he wants a whole essay on the history of some place he’ll probably never go to again. (If it’s cute, so what?)

The Master has never been good at coming up with ways to shut people up, and so far he’s narrowed it down to:

  * killing them
  * kissing them
  * dumping them on an alien planet and never talking to them again
  * blowing up a large section of the universe



He’s thinking the second one may be the most appropriate. “So,” the Master begins, and tries not to sneer, “are you having a better time now? You looked miserable ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah! I’m great!” The Doctor smiles like a puppy with a background of constant lying and serious emotional issues. Charming.

He leans in, tilting the Doctor’s head up. “Are you entirely sure about that?”

The Doctor nods, still insufferably cheery. “How about you stop talking, hm?”

He kisses the Doctor as gently as he can, which is surprising given... everything. He hasn’t done touch nor snogging much in this body, although apparently the Doctor has (he’s not jealous, not at all). It annoys him to be bested by Theta at, well, anything, but he’s focusing more on other things, like the scent of the Doctor’s hair and, wow, how much gel is in that spiky mop?

The Doctor is far more adept at these sorts of things, so when they do stop it is the Doctor who breaks away. He winces, because now this is awkward.

The Doctor brushes his lips on the Master’s hand, and then he is gone.

* * *

He remembers what it is to be held, to be loved, though these are the sorts of things remembered through shattered photographs and hollow recollections. The Master whistles to himself softly, something gentle and kind, hums a tune to accompany himself.

Msybe he should take up piano. There is a certain beauty to the rise and the fall, to the long melodies that have such scope, drawing everything out into something more abstractly beautiful. Or writing. Words can convey so much so fast, another great achievement of Earth. (Jane Austen is looking particularly good right now.)

His feet whirl fast over the floor of this tiny flat, spinning tightly and jumping and following the steps in his own unique way. It is also beautiful.

And yet there is something missing. The caress of a lover’s hand on a shoulder, perhaps; a gaze lingering on him that he cannot quite rid himself of. A stumbling foot nearly stepping on his, clumsy and welcome.

He traces steps round, again and again and again, until he is dizzy and tired and can barely stand, but it is still not enough. He has been here for minutes, hours, days even, still desperately seeking out what isn’t there.

He grasps for someone who should be with him, but there is nothing in the spaces between.


End file.
